n the
aftermath of the storm, even before all the debris drawn aloft into the
maelstrom had settled finally to the earth, the terrorized,
panic-stricken citizens and visitors to the city began to flee the
devastated area, seeking safety in the untouched commercial district and
nearby homes of the community. Within moments, a different group of
equally terrorized and panic-stricken citizens began to rush into the
devastated area digging with bare hands into the debris searching for
some sign of a loved one.

The storm that had seemed to take an
eternity to pass beyond the city had lasted, in fact, only about twenty
minutes. In its’ wake it had spent the greater part of its fury on
Front Street leaving a trail of total destruction more than two blocks
wide and fourteen blocks long. Front Street was devastated, reduced to
ruin. On both sides of the street where great, modern brick structures
had existed previously were huge disorganized piles of brick and
lumber. The street itself was piled high with the rubble of these once
fine structures. As far as the eye could see in either direction along
the street lay the wreckage of a once strong and active center of the
city.

Tornado damage of
the Mansard roof of the Joseph Baum Building located on Front
Street at Twenty-Fifth Avenue. Baum sold wholesale and
retail clothing.

Chaos now reigned in the district as the
confused and disoriented people thronged the ruins, tossing brick this
way and timber that. Beneath the wrecked debris that was all that was
left of the buildings, the mobs realized that there were voids. Within
those voids were trapped living people. Their cries could be heard under
the piles of rubble. Within moments it became apparent that the efforts
of the well-meaning mob were becoming counter-productive as, in an
effort to free some injured soul, one person cast the debris of his
efforts upon the attempt of another to reach a different victim. As had
always been the case in the city, men of courage and character began to
emerge from the crowd and, putting aside their own concerns, they
organized the crowd into work parties in which each team’s efforts were
more coordinated and, therefore, more effective.

The areas of concern were still darkened and
with no hope of light, electric or otherwise, the teams swarming the
buildings used torches, lanterns and even candlelight to search the
wreckage. Even if the skies above had been clear, the waning crescent
moon would not have added illumination to the storm path below. Within
half an hour, by 7:15 P. M., Mayor J. H. Rivers was on the scene followed closely
by Chief of Police W. M. Bloodsworth who had taken command of the police
department from Chief Nelson in 1901. Fire
Chief C. C. Massey was in place at Fire Station Number One assessing the
activities of his companies and would soon head for the scene.

Meridian Mayor J. H. Rivers served during the tornado

The impromptu teams, now much better
organized, had each taken a specific location or building upon which to
focus their activities, and rescue attempts had begun in earnest. Each
area was cleared before moving on to the next. The building or
remaining piles of
rubble received priority based on whether the cries
of victims could be heard or on the likelihood that potential victims
had been present before the storm. In this manner, with little guidance
from the authorities, the work of freeing those trapped, and uncovering
the remains of those lost, proceeded.

Among Mayor Rivers’ first act after
reviewing the wreckage was to order several large buildings on the
outskirts of the city in the west and north be turned into emergency
hospitals. He then contacted the local militia and ordered them to
respond to the area of greatest devastation, setting up a cordon of
guards around the damage track to
prevent looting and control the mobs of people still gathering in the
area.

Although not within his authority, Mayor
Rivers found them as
concerned about the safety and security of their home city as any other
citizens. One would imagine that the telephone lines between the local
Commander in Meridian and his higher headquarters were humming that
evening as authority was requested and received for the units to
assemble. Almost immediately local Companies A and D rallied at their
headquarters and, under the tactical command of their Captains,
responded to secure the area through which the storm had passed. Within
hours others units would respond as well and, within a day, a unit from
Laurel, Mississippi, Company E, along with three companies from other nearby
localities, were in the area in response to the emergency call.

Having received the alarm and his
instructions by telephone moments earlier, Cap’n Billy sat atop the
heavy wagon as they turned east into the heart of the growing
conflagration in Georgetown. As the wagon turned, he gave the nod to
his son Tom who slipped quietly from the wagon into the street and moved
quickly off in another direction.

The view from
Twenty-Second Avenue looking east. The remaining lower
floors of the Grand Avenue Hotel can be seen at right.
Across the street about half way down the block is the pile of
rubble that was once the Meyer-Neville Hardware building.

Tom found his own home smashed by the storm,
a twisted pile of lumber that seemed to have been crushed by some giant
foot. The roof now covered only the back yard, sitting directly on the
ground as if it now covered some subterranean dwelling. The single wall
of the house remaining upright teeter-tottered in the breeze, ready to
join the pile of twisted and broken lumber scattered around on the
ground nearby, but not yet having given up its nearly vertical posture as
had the other walls. Here and there was the occasional piece of
furniture, soaked but otherwise undamaged.
The stove stood as it had
near the rear of what had been the kitchen but no stove pipes rose from
the back. The interior walls were all gone but the former demarcation
of the rooms was clearly evident by the discoloration of the floor
boards.

He was briefly frozen in place, horrified by
the possibility of the loss of his beloved Annie. As he stumbled toward
the wreckage, he heard his name called from the darkened porch of an undamaged home nearby and turned his back toward the rubble as Annie ran
into his arms.

Together they walked the few blocks south to
his father’s home where they found that, even though much closer to the
vortex than his own home, the house was still standing, having given up
only a few squares of shingles and a small portion of the roof to the
storm. His mother, brother and sisters were all well and he left Annie
with them as he began to quickly make his way to his father’s side in
Georgetown.

The fires, almost entirely out of control, in Georgetown
were being held marginally in check by the heavy rain. The flame
whipped and growled from underneath the debris, as if longing to break
out and consume everything in sight but unable to do so. It tunneled
and snaked its way through the wreckage. The fires were being fought by
make-shift bucket brigades of the local residents. But, not
understanding the beast, they tossed water ineffectively upon the
smoking ruins from which it immediately ran off, leaving useless, muddy
puddles in the already saturated soil. Cap’n Billy, a master of his
trade, set about organizing the men and alongside his firemen, they
fought the blaze together. Not content to cast precious water about
helter-skelter, he chased the fire beast into its’ lair, overturning
partially destroyed walls, entering those houses still standing with
hose and axe and ferreting out the beast anywhere it might slither or
squirm. The downpour following the storm had thankfully held the fire
in check but as the rain slowed to moderate and then light, the fire had
begun to reassert itself. It was a long, hard-fought battle, but
by 2:00 A. M., Cap’n Billy had vanquished the flame and the fires in
Georgetown were, at last, extinguished.

Twenty-Second Avenue looking west.

Nearly 500 small homes had been destroyed by
the wind and fire and the fire department had recovered the badly
charred remains of eight black Meridian citizens, presumably residents
of Georgetown. However, the remains had suffered such damage from the
fire that they were unrecognizable and, likely, would not be identified
until the list of the missing was final. It was also learned that a
black church nearby had been completely destroyed, while the
surrounding buildings were untouched. But there was no fire there and
this was not his concern. This would be only the beginning of the long
night.

In the downtown area, the local units of the
Mississippi National Guard had completed its’ cordon around the stricken
area and the work continued unabated by the distraught cries of the
hopeful relatives of the victims.

The work crews beginning on First Street had
already removed most of the debris from what was once the Thornton
Livery and Feed Stable. In the process they had uncovered the remains
of six horses, but what they found next chilled and horrified them.
Beneath the rubble the crew had discovered the bodies of former Police
Chief, now liveryman, William
Nelson and his friend James
Tarry, among the first victims of the disaster. Nelson would make the long ride out
eighth street road one last time, but not to his former residence on
Thirty-Ninth Avenue. His return would be to nearby Rose Hill Cemetery
where his remains would spend eternity alongside his mother and, later,
his wife, Mary.

The new Union Station, a proud new addition
to the city, had suffered what was probably minimal damage. However, at
least one section of the roof was down and as the workers scrambled over
the damaged section they discovered the bodies of father and son, John
and Clarence Stewart and neighbor, Mrs. Smith, their sojourn
precipitously ended. Their bodies would continue the journey back to
Cottondale on the train as they had planned but not quite as they would
have wished.

Across Front Street, the Elmire Restaurant
had been among the businesses hardest hit by the storm. When the vortex
passed down Front Street there had been twenty-one souls in the
first floor restaurant and in the second floor hotel. Seventeen of them had been
killed in the partial collapse of the structure or by missiles launched
from the roof of the Union Depot, just across the street, or one of the
other disintegrating structures nearby. Before the Nineteenth Avenue
side of the hotel and restaurant had collapsed in on itself, all of the
glass would be shattered and broken by the debris.

The body of M&O engineer Patrick McGinnis
was recovered from beneath the destruction as was that of flagman Cliff
Edwards. Neither would Great Southern Railroad engineer John Smith make the home-bound
run back to Selma on a locomotive, but, sadly, in the baggage car.

A cook in the back of the restaurant was
crushed to death under the collapsing building. Colonel B. F. Elmire,
the proprietor of Elmire’s, was himself injured when falling debris
struck him heavily on the shoulders, fracturing his collar bone and
leaving him unconscious with head trauma and internal injuries that
would take his life two weeks later. Ironically his death would be
erroneously reported in the newspapers three days after the storm, but
it would be retracted the following day. When he finally succumbed to
his injuries, the cyclone story was no longer interesting to the media
and only his Meridian friends and relatives would know.

At the Grand Avenue Hotel, the news was
initially a little better. Although the destruction was complete and
the hotel destroyed, none of the 30 guests or any employee was
reportedly injured. However, at the outset, J. M. Holt, the proprietor
of the hotel, and his wife were having a conversation in the rear office
of the hotel. Suddenly, a huge piece of timber drawn into the
maelstrom from some former structure, burst through the office window.
Passing between Mr. Holt and his wife, the timber embedded itself into
the wall opposite. Mr. and Mrs. Holt escaped unharmed and, even though
it was initially reported that none of the guests was harmed, several
bodies were later discovered in the wreckage of the two upper floors.

From the ruins of the nearby Meyer-Neville
Hardware Company cries of the injured originated from beneath the
wreckage as teams of rescuers worked to reach them. Within a few
moments the debris began to rise and fall as D. E. Bennett, an employee,
extricated himself from the ruins, with only minimal assistance from the
workers, and was hastily carried to a waiting wagon for transport to one
of the city’s emergency hospitals. He informed the working crews that
there had been at least two others buried in the building.

A few minutes before Mr. Bennett had made
his appearance on the surface, the crew had recovered the body of his
friend and floor manager, Claude Williams. He had been crushed to death by the
collapse. However, the cries of his colleague, Frank Woodruff, could
still be heard and the team worked with renewed vigor to extricate him.

Woodruff was buried under two floors of
debris and little hope was held of removing the wreckage completely in
time to affect a rescue. An ingenious and creative but dangerous new
plan was devised by two of the team members. A man, identified only as
Gallaher, and a machinist of one of the nearby railroad shops, W. H.
Hobbs, set about with a hammer, a small keyhole saw and a jack to tunnel
their way to the trapped Woodruff. As they proceeded through the
debris, whenever they came to a piece of timber too large to be
effectively cut with the small saw, the second man would jack the timber
up far enough to have space to move underneath it and crib it in place
with the cut pieces of lumber that they had dragged along with them.
When they reached Woodruff, they found him essentially unhurt except
that his foot was pinioned beneath a large timber. Jacking the timber
off the foot, they removed him from the ruins the same way that they
had come in. Dangerous but effective, the rescue was complete. Woodruff
would later surrender three of his toes to gangrene but he would live on
for years more because of the heroism of his two rescuers.

The body of Woodruff's friend, floor manager
Claude Williams, was removed the following morning. An odd story
relating to Williams' death was published the following day. When
the rescuers finally reached Williams, it was discovered
that his throat had been cut and he had exsanguinated. The newspaper
report suggested that Williams, pinned beneath the debris of the
building, had exhausted himself crying out for help and when the team
could not reach him immediately he lost all hope, committing suicide by
slashing his own throat with his pen knife. The story was blatantly
untrue and clearly an attempt by some witless reporter to sensationalize
the truth.

Remains of the
Queen and Crescent Railroad freight depot.

In the days following the cyclone, it was
demonstrated that Williams' throat had been slashed by shards of glass
that flew inward when the pressure of the storm pushed in the large
glass windows in the front of the building.

Among the first buildings on Front Street to
go down was the Queen and Crescent Railroad freight depot. There were
16 men on duty in the building when the storm struck and initial reports
had them all listed as killed, buried beneath the rubble. However,
their mothers not having raised any fools, on seeing the storm approach,
fifteen of them fled. Unfortunately, they weren't heroes
either, because the sixteenth man in the Queen and Crescent depot that
day was a handicapped man named Charles Harris. Harris was wheelchair
bound and as the others fled the building, no one stopped to help
Harris. Harris may have lost the use of his legs but not the use of his
brain. Realizing that he would not be leaving the building, he moved
his chair to a rear corner of the building away from the storm and
lowered himself to the floor where he huddled as the storm blew over and
the building came down around him. When the storm had passed, he
crawled out through the rear of the building and was found by the
searchers minutes after the storm with only minor cuts and scratches.

Ironically, many of those who fled the
building ended up in the emergency hospitals with broken bones and other
minor injuries caused by having been thrown about by the winds or struck
by debris.

In the eastern part of town, as daylight
began to break, casting an eerie early morning glow across the horizon,
illuminating the cloud cover with a ghostly light, a group of men on the
outskirts of the Georgetown section were checking the nearby homes for
damage. Shortly after 5:00 A. M., one of them heard a faint sound that he
thought might be an injured animal. Investigating the noise, he entered
the back yard of an adjacent structure where, in the center of the yard, he
found a baby. The infant was completely unharmed and was apparently
just waking up from an early morning nap. The baby was taken to the
emergency hospital for an examination and eventually returned to Mr. and
Mrs. Stewart.

When the dust settled, several key buildings
were safe, like the Great Southern Hotel which had sustained only minor
damage, and the Mobile and Ohio Railroad freight depot. However, many
other buildings of the district were completely destroyed. These were
brick structures of five, six and, at least one, of seven floors.

The Grand Avenue Hotel, an older brick
building dating to antebellum times, had crumbled to a cracked brick and
dust ruin. An observer who was a guest of the Grand Avenue Hotel would
later write to friends about the storm. On the back of a postcard
showing the former splendor of the city, he would intimate, “The Grand
Avenue Hotel is now a brickyard.” Across the street, the Culpepper
Hotel had also collapsed.

The soldiers of a uniformed organization
other than the Mississippi National Guard moved quietly
among the
victims that evening. These soldiers of Christ were visiting
representatives of a relatively new organization to the city. The
Salvation Army had established a meeting hall in Meridian and was busily
administering to the needs of the city’s downtrodden and lost. Major
J. M. Berriman and his wife, along with an Ensign Widgery of Atlanta,
were visiting the area which was normally under the charge of the local
minister, a Captain Downs. They had planned a meeting in the local
hall for that evening but soon discovered that they were needed
elsewhere.

On returning to Atlanta, Ensign Widgery
spoke to a representative of The Constitution. He said:

“I have been in the Salvation Army work all
of my life and have been thrown with suffering on many occasions, but
that particular night in Meridian must remain in my memory in a dark
place all its own.”

A large piece of timber, thrown by the
storm, had crashed into the roof of their meeting hall. The weight of
the timber was such that it not only penetrated the roof but also crushed the
structure. The Army had set up shop in the Meridian Florence
Crittenton
Home, then, as now, a benevolent organization primarily concerned with
the care of unwed mothers and troubled teens. There they had been
caring for the victims from Georgetown and the cotton mill district.

Having received permission from both the
Meridian Police and Colonel McCants of the National Guard, the
“Salvationists”, as they were called, entered the cordoned areas where
the most damage had been wrought. Widgery reported:

“It was very pitiful to see some of the
injured
among the debris, but so far away that an hour or more was
required in getting to them. Their suffering was terrible and there
were many who asked for us to pray for them, which, of course, we were
very glad indeed to do. …Many thought that they were going to die
instantly and the ‘God bless you’s’ which they returned for our prayers
were of the kind that came directly from the heart and no mistake.”

These Christian soldiers were of great help
to the relief efforts. They had received not only spiritual training
but had also been given extensive first aid training and instruction in what we
would call today, "triage". They were able to render aid to those who had
only minor injuries as well as routing those most in need directly to
the emergency hospitals and surgeons.

In the final count, nearly 40 businesses
buildings were destroyed. The Armour Packing Plant had been left
standing but the roof was gone. The Tom Lyle Grocery Company was
leveled. The final value of the destruction, after bouncing between
$5,000,000 and $500,000, settled in, officially, at $1,250,000. Of the
business destroyed, only five had any form of insurance at all, and,
among the five, the total
amount of insurance was a very inadequate
$67,000. Outside of the businesses destroyed or damaged, more than 500
residences had been leveled.

On assessing the damage, the Meridian Light
and Power Company estimated that it would take approximately ten days to
repair the damage and to restore power to the residents

Another observer, present during the
maelstrom, F. M. Struts of Washington, Missouri, gave one of the few
eyewitness accounts when he arrived in Mobile, Alabama, the following
day. In his vivid account he reported:

“I was in the dining room of the Southern
Hotel when the death-dealing wind struck the city. Late in the
afternoon I noticed dark clouds hovering around the city and the
humidity was very trying. Shortly after 6:15 o’clock a terrible-looking
cloud could be observed bounding out from the southwest toward the
city. This was followed by a down-pour of rain and then, with a rush
and a noise that struck terror to the stoutest hearts, the tornado
descended upon that portion of the city near the passenger station.

“It came
toward the city from the southwest, following the railroad tracks which
passed through Meridian, along Front Street. The noise was
terrible.
Among the first buildings to go down
was the electric lighting plant, and the city was thrown into a stifling
darkness. Confusion reigned. People were panic-stricken and rushed
into the streets from every direction.

“To add to the terror of the night fire
started out in various parts of the ruined district. Vandalism was also
soon apparent, and to keep back persons who were frenzied with grief
over missing friends and relatives, the local militia was called out by
the Mayor. A cordon of armed men was thrown around the ruined business
district. Lamps, candles, and lanterns were pressed into service by
those engaged in the work of rescue.”

Mr. Struts’ account is chilling and,
generally, on the mark. However, given the confusion that he
observed in the aftermath, it is understandable that he might have
mistaken what he thought was vandalism for attempts by the rescuers to
remove those objects that hindered their efforts. The Commander of
the Mississippi National Guard task force, Colonel William McCants,
who cordoned and
protected the scene within hours of the destruction, released the
following statement on the fifth of March:

“Never in my years of military experience
have I observed before, the entire absence of vandalism and ghoulish
acts which usually follow on the heels of a like disaster. Not a single
instance of this character has been reported or observed.”

Although no vandalism was reported, the
National Guard units, seven in all, did experience some “internal”
problems. On March sixth, a National Guardsman, Private D. G. Jones was
stabbed by another guardsman, Private Arthur Stokes, with a bayonet.
It’s difficult to know which of the many bayonets used by the Army was
in service with the Guard at the time but the M-1905 bayonet was nearly
sixteen inches long and its predecessor was a triple edged tool of a
similar length. Either way this would have been a terrible wound. The
story behind this incident was not disclosed.

After the storm
passed seven companies of the Mississippi National Guard were
called in to cordon off the devastated areas.

Further, a Sergeant Quintley somehow
managed to shoot himself in the abdomen. The two soldiers were
reported to be recuperating slowly and, presumably, both survived their
injuries. However, through these two unfortunate incidents we learn
that the National Guard was standing watch over the city, having been
issued live
ammunition and with bayonets fixed. This in itself would
have been more than sufficient to deter reckless behavior on the part of
the citizens and lends great credibility to Colonel McCants' assertion
that no acts of vandalism had occurred.

Apparently, all citizens of the
city and all National Guardsmen survived the brief occupation of the
Guard. The withdrawal of the Guard began five days after the storm on
March 7, 1906. Although some newspapers reported that martial law had
been declared, such was not the case. Law enforcement was conducted by
the Meridian Police Department while the National Guard performed a
security function. The federal government would have been prohibited
from declaring martial law under the “Posse Comitatus Act of 1878,” and
the Governor had ordered that a “state of emergency” existed in the area,
thus allowing the participation of the Guard under his supervision.

By late on the evening of March third,
twenty-four bodies had been recovered from the wreckage and fifty-three had been reported
injured. The actual property damage, a conservative estimate at the
time, was $1,000,000.

A view of the
damage. In the distance can be seen the Railroad YMCA
building sans the top floor and a portion of the lower floor.

Those businesses that had assessed and
reported their damage were:

Meyer-Neville Hardware reported $100,000
lost in the building and $150,000 in stock. This building was the
tallest, at seven stories, in the city. The Meridian Cement Company was
reported as a total loss valued at $250,000. The Grand Avenue Hotel,
consisting of two buildings, one on twenty-second avenue and a second on
Grand Avenue, reported total damage
in the
amount of $50,000. Thomas
Lyle Hardware, four stories, reported $35,000 in the building and
$40,000 in stock. Elmire’s Hotel and Restaurant reported two stories
damaged with
a loss of $10,000. The Culpepper Hotel lost the two top
floors and reported damage
amounting to $15,000. The building was three
stories tall. The loss at the Railroad YMCA was $15,000. The New
Orleans and Northeastern Railroad Freight Depot Building was partially
damages, with no estimate available. The Meridian Cotton Oil Company
was destroyed as was the Cotton State Lumber Company. The largest loss
at the C. M. Rubush Lumber Company was the stock which was valued at
$150,000.

The financial loss of the businesses in the
wholesale district was calculable but the loss in human suffering and
life was not. Bloodied but not beaten, Meridian would rise, like the
mythical Phoenix, from the ashes of the maelstrom. She would rise in
the freshness of youth to become a paragon of peerless beauty and
efficiency. The city's entrepreneur's, government and fine
hard-working citizens of the community would lovingly tend her wounds
and nurse her until the Queen finally raised her head again, proud and
defiant.